Sword of Justice (White Knight Series) (35 page)

The scarred eye compressed. “You deceived me. You were Drake from start to finish, while I put Stephen on the
Esnecca
. No wonder he fought so hard.”

Between sips from his goblet, Mallory speculated over the rampant rumors of a coup averted. He knew some of the truth, as did the rest of Winchester, having to do with gambling debts, illicit usury, a robbed treasury, a traitorous prince, and the full exoneration of a certain white knight. Whatever facts had surfaced, though, were soon subjugated by imaginative speculation. The theft from the royal treasury turned into a secret hoard of rubies and sapphires. The escape of a prisoner became a magical flight to freedom. The brutal murder of a disowned son was attributed to forest goblins. The dark horseman who hacked off the private parts of three knights was done by a sorcerer who used the organs to turn charcoal into gold. The unrequited love of a disgraced daughter grew into a golden water nymph who took her own life using the dagger of her secret
paramour
.

Mallory suspected Drake knew fact from fancy and pressed in a friendly way for gossip and grist. Drake played the fool, acknowledging only what was commonly accepted, whether truth or lore.

“What happened in Winchester has the makings of a legend,” said Mallory. “One fine day, you might find yourself immortalized in a
chanson de geste
, elevated to a romantic warrior unscathed by the swords of mortal men.”

“Flesh and blood is what I am, and have the scars to prove it.”

They drank on, cup after cup of bad wine. The conversation turned to women, and Mallory’s desire to find a rich widow and settle down.

“A knight bachelor is what you are, Mallory d’Amboise, and a knight bachelor is how you will go to your grave.”

“Not for certes. Look to William Marshal. A bridegroom at five-and-forty and land to call his own. As for me, prospects are looking up.” A crevice opened wide his un-pretty face.

“Aye, I hear congratulations are in order. You’re to be captain of Gloucester’s garrison.”

“Henri de Berneval was to have the post but withdrew.”

Drake silently digested the news. “William regrets your loss but daren’t hold you back.”

“Aye, I’m grateful to the fitzAlans.”

“But not so grateful as to stay,” Drake said sternly, his grin belying the tone of his voice.

“This isn’t
adieu
, for we shall see each other anon.” The undiluted joy beaming on Mallory’s face was a peculiar sight on a man so ugly. “I leave this very night. To join John and his brother in Canterbury.”

Drake held aloft his cup. “I wish you all good success,
Sieur
d’Amboise, and a safe journey.” Mallory finished off his wine and called for more.

The night wore on. Stephen dropped by, told them a lewd tale, and returned to the gaming tables. He was ahead, he said.

“John is merely playing with his brother,” said Mallory. “I’ve seen them up close, so I know. This was but a short sword practice afore the greater battle to come. If King Richard knows what’s good for him, he won’t go on crusade.” The
chevalier
lifted his goblet, and belching loudly, took his leave.

Drake lingered an hour more. Then he too left.

* * *

Outside the livery, the cathedral bells rang matins. Inside, Drake’s dappled gray nickered as its owner passed the crupper beneath his tail and secured it to the cantle. Despite all he had drunk, his senses were uncommonly alert. He knew she was standing there ere she spoke.

“You’re going then?” She stepped out of the shadows. A chance moonbeam illuminated her cameo face. She hugged a cloak around her shoulders. “To join Richard?”

An intake of breath seared his chest. “Aye,” he said simply.

She stood like a statue frozen forever in his memory. The cloak fell away. The woad blue of her kirtle matched the darkness of the night while a safflower bodice gave off the illusion of bare skin crisscrossed with blue laces. Her feet glided toward him. She reached behind her neck and loosened the silver crucifix at her throat.

Body against body, her inner hearth fire seeped into him and roused more than heat. Fingers like butterfly wings secured the thong at the back of his neck. Her lips floated close to his. The drift of lavender encased his spirit. The feel of her heart beating so near to his nearly broke his resolve.

“Godspeed, Drake fitzAlan.” She took one, two, three steps backwards, still facing him, the skirt of her gown sweeping along the straw, her eyes tight on his. She reached for her cloak and wheeled around to make her escape.

She nearly made it, but in a swift, agile movement, Drake chased after her and gathered her into his arms. She didn’t resist his mouth as it sought, found, and consumed hers.

When the wordless farewell ended, she tore her lips away. “You’ve a nerve.”

“Will you wait for me?”

She fought to remove herself from his embrace. “I have better things to do with my days than wait for a reckless knight who may or may not return God knows how many years from now, nay, nor in what bodily capacity.”

“For you,
ma demoiselle,
my bodily capacity shall remain ever at the ready.” Her cross expression made him smile all the more. “Then you will? Wait for me.”

She threw her arms around his neck, set his lips on fire, and ran like the wind.

Chapter 33
                
 

PILGRIMS’ WAY WAS
SO NAMED
when Old King Henry, some fifteen years ago, traveled the route from Winchester to Canterbury to do penance before the tomb of his venerable enemy Thomas Becket. Following an old traders’ route along the lower slopes of the North Downs, the road had existed since Roman times.

Drake and Stephen took that same path—from the holy shrine of St Swithun at Winchester Cathedral to the holy shrine of St Thomas at Canterbury Cathedral—a hundred-mile trek. Seated on a graceful roan at the rear, their fledgling squire Devon led sumpters and the matched destriers.

Three days of travel brought the brothers fitzAlan to the outskirts of Canterbury. They came by way of Westgate, crossed the River Stour, entered High Street, and thence rode along Mercery Lane, a narrow alley lined with shops and stalls stocked with holy mementos: heated waters from Becket’s Well, ampullae holding the saint’s diluted blood, silver medallions, carved crosses, cloth badges, and other religious keepsakes all sold for the price of one’s silver and soul.

After riding through the gates of the close, they allowed their twin gray palfreys to cut a path through the loitering throng. Thousands of pilgrims had found their way to Canterbury Cathedral to gaze upon the relics of a saint, to touch his healing waters, to pray for their own deliverance or the deliverance of loved ones, and to catch sight of a king.

Since the cathedral had been evacuated by Richard’s guard, the limestone and marble reverberated with the solitary footsteps of two young knights. Above them, the stone canopy rose majestically heavenward, a mountain sculpted from the inside out, the dome thrust upward by rising columns, vaulting ribs, and pointed arches. Supplying an abundance of ethereal light in hues of blue and red, stained-glass windows exalted the glory of an everlasting God.

Holding swords quietly at their sides, the brothers traversed the north side of the nave and followed a path from Becket’s martyrdom near the northwest transept down into the chill and gloomy crypt of his entombment. Columns supported a series of underground vaults that led the brothers irrevocably forward and around. Located in the easternmost chapel, the tomb of the martyr was filled to capacity with the king’s retinue. Archbishop Baldwin officiated, leading in prayer a noble congregation of earls, barons, knights, and one elegantly attired queen.

Richard lay before the tomb of St Thomas, receiving atonement of body and soul and offering penance for his father’s many sins, the worst of which was to instigate the murder of the encrypted archbishop by four of his trusted knights. As King Henry before him, Richard arrived at the chapel barefoot and clothed as a peasant.

Gritty from the road, Drake and Stephen stood respectfully to one side. Sitting straight-backed on a gilt cathedra, Queen Eleanor affirmed their presence with a gracious bow of her head. Standing close to the king, John likewise acknowledged the brothers with a curt nod before returning an insipid gaze to his older brother.

Shining like spilt blood on the prince’s left hand, a gold ring inset with a black-red gemstone and inlaid with a golden cross encircled his middle finger. The same ring Drake received as a gift from his father on the occasion of his dubbing as knight. The same ring torn from his finger in the Twyford Castle dungeon. The same ring subsequently entrusted to Graham de Lacy as a token of friendship. And a twin to the ring now gracing Stephen’s hand.

Catching sight of the ring at nearly the same instant, Stephen anxiously shifted his vision between brother and cousin.

Ending his obeisance, the king rose to his feet. Though Drake and Stephen had approached noiselessly, Richard espied them. After observing the expressions of wrath on the faces of both brothers, he cast his eyes toward the source of their unflinching stare. Heeding the look in the king’s eyes, John swung his vision toward Drake. Eleanor, too, became aware of the silent engagement. Rising from her chair, she silently left the chamber a step behind the king. Leaving off the duel of eyes, John followed his brother via the south aisle. Stephen hesitated before taking the same route. Last to leave the chapel by the same path was a knight with fierce green eyes and the disposition to kill or be killed.

Drake climbed out of the crypt and followed the procession into the choir. As the newly installed captain of Gloucester’s guard, Mallory d’Amboise took his rightful place near the prince. John whispered into his ear, and d’Amboise cranked his head in Drake’s direction. The scarred eye flapped open, concern shining in the jet bead.

Dressed in full regalia, Richard reemerged from behind a privacy curtain. The ceremony wore on with prayers, oaths spoken at the altar, Mass to follow, the offertory to intercede, additional blessings, and closing prayers.

Entrenching himself between the prince and the rear of the choir, Drake fitzAlan was patient for the rites to end. The earl of Gloucester clearly was not. Stephen stood at his brother’s side, and together they formed a visible bulwark against an invisible assault. Taking note of the combat of wills between knight and prince, William Marshal quietly flanked Drake on his right.

The final Amen was intoned by the pious and not so pious. The cathedral cleared, leaving behind a select assemblage: the king, his brother, their mother, a captain of the guard, a white knight, his twin brother, and their former master of training.

Archbishop Baldwin strolled purposely up to Drake, the mitre he wore the only authority required to stop what was about to take place. “Do you mean to desecrate this house of God?”

Drake answered the archbishop levelly and without rancor. “Not to desecrate, your worship, but to uphold His holy commandments.”

“Drake!” Richard’s booming voice made him flinch as it always did. “Not for me, Drake!”

Drake responded with silence, in itself a courageous act of defiance, and pivoted to face his adversary. John had not spoken. His choleric face said everything while the proof of his guilt pulsated on his hand.

“The ring,” Drake said, his voice echoing like a distant waterfall, “is mine.”

Without looking, John tugged the garnet from his finger. “Do you accuse me of stealing this ring? For if you do, make your charge.”

“The ring was a token of fellowship given to Graham de Lacy, who swore to protect Geneviève de Berneval with his life. He kept his oath. And forfeited his life.”

John blanched but spoke equably. “Then you accuse me of thievery
and
murder.”

His hand twitching restlessly on the pommel of his dragon sword, Drake said nothing.

“I demand satisfaction to these false charges” John shouted.” Let God be the judge.” He jammed the ring back onto his hand.

Drake bowed and backed away.

* * *

Standing before the high altar, William Marshal spoke in a sonorous voice. “Oyez, oyez, oyez! Drake fitzAlan of Itchendel, defendant, come to your judgment, which you have undertaken at this day and at this time to acquit your pledges before the king in your defense against John, earl of Gloucester, that he has put upon you.”

Stripped of tunic, sword, and scabbard, and naked of boots and spurs, Drake strode across the alternating tiles of black and white marble and stood stolidly before Marshal.

Likewise stripped of tunic, mantle, and the flamboyant accoutrements of high position, John faced Drake, his dark eyes glancing neither left nor right.

“You John, earl of Gloucester, appellant, shall take Drake fitzAlan of Itchendel, defendant, by the right hand and he you.”

The men reached forward, hesitated, and clasped right hands. One was hot and sweaty; the other, cold and dry.